


Locked in a Moment

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boundaries!, Don't copy to another site, Enjolras is physically incapable of giving anything less than his all, Get-Together Fic, Grantaire pov, M/M, and he's not afraid to be dramatic about it, are the keys and grantaire's body temperature symbols? yes, communication!, is there significance in Feuilly's name being the first word everyone says?, no but it sure seems like it huh, will I explain them? no, yay!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 14:23:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20996276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: Wait, what?Grantaire has only a moment to register the shock of the kiss, the brush of soft lips against his and the warmth he finds there, before Enjolras is sweeping into the final steps of choreography.We didn’t runthatin rehearsal.Based onThePiecesOfCait'sBallet Dancer AU piece.Warnings:passing reference to past drinking habits





	Locked in a Moment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/gifts).

> Written for my wonderful beta-reader [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait) to celebrate one year of working with each other. <3 No just's or countertops, and everything that needs asked is answered!
> 
> Thanks to [AnnaBolena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena) not only for looking over this for me but also for putting up with both of our overdependent asses while we tried to do this. XD
> 
> **Non-dancers:**  
A company in ballet refers to a troupe of professional dancers who are paid to perform together. Freelance professional dancers are pretty uncommon.  
A principal dancer refers to the highest-paid level of company dancers. Main roles are typically reserved for them.

_Wait, what?_

Grantaire has only a moment to register the shock of the kiss, the brush of soft lips against his and the warmth he finds there, before Enjolras is sweeping into the final steps of choreography. 

_We didn’t run_ that _in rehearsal._

Fortunately, Grantaire’s muscles are capable of remembering what to do independent of his brain, and he finds his body taking final form in sync with the closing notes of the symphony as they ring throughout the theatre. His breath comes heavy as sweat drips down his face, and he’s afforded only the briefest glance out of the corner of his eye at the blond to the other side of him. The glimpse he catches leaves Grantaire struck all over again by the ferocity Enjolras can convey in a single look. His hair shines radiant in the stage lighting, and his skin glistens with the sheen of perspiration.

The applause is thunderous, and as soon as the thick velvet curtain sweeps shut the stage is a flurry of activity, rivers of people coursing in opposite directions to either side of him as he stands frozen in between, a branch lodged on an obstruction no one else seems able to see.

Enjolras is already gone, a flash of gold disappearing off stage left, and Grantaire reluctantly allows himself to be swept away with the current to his position opposite the other principal.

_Why did you kiss me?_

This season’s ballet had called for a smaller cast than other productions Grantaire has taken part in; it had been a delight during the rehearsal period, but he curses it now as his mind flails in the tumultuous waters of incoherent thoughts and feeling. His brain struggles to the surface long enough to gasp for air and register his cue to go onstage before plunging back into murky depths once more.

Still, he wears his smile gracefully, accepting his bouquet alongside the object of his turmoil, going through the motions of removing one long-stemmed rose to pass back to the choreographer. He turns and gives a final wave to the audience as the applause swells and the curtain reels shut for the night.

At one point in his life, this is the time when Grantaire would have been concerning himself with schmoozing with big names in the lobby or picking post-show venues at which to get shitfaced; now that he has cleaned his life up and busted his ass making a name for himself on the global stage, he has much more pressing matters to attend to. Enjolras has already dashed offstage in the time it’s taken Grantaire to collect himself, presumably to his shared dressing room which, for no discernible reason, seems to be on the far opposite side of the venue from Grantaire’s.

Ignoring congratulations and celebratory ass-slaps, he pushes through the crowd of dancers and stagehands with intentions to follow, realizing all too late that he has made a wrong turn somewhere and is in the entirely wrong wing of the building. A low sound of frustration rises in his throat.

_Why did you kiss me?_

A thousand questions continue swirling through his mind. The straight-laced principal and he had hardly taken to one another to start; work ethic and artistic differences notwithstanding, Grantaire had by no means ingratiated himself to the blond with his insistence on antagonizing the man over his lofty and naive goals of normalizing colorblind casting and different body types in the dance world. But antagonizing had given way to teasing, then flirting, and now…

_Why did you kiss me?_

And now he won’t talk to Grantaire. 

Sighing, Grantaire begins slowing retracing his steps. Perhaps this, like so many dalliances before, should be let go, allowed to flow freely through his fingers and out of his grasp. It’s been a long time since Grantaire has taken a relationship seriously, longer still since someone else has returned the favor. No point in ruining his track record now, is there?

A flourish of red pushes past him, and—no, it isn’t Enjolras, but already his heart is beating faster, and his face is flushed, and Goddammit, this is nothing like any fleeting courtship before now. Grantaire has never wanted anyone the way he wants Enjolras, to know him inside and out and be known in turn, to sit and read books together and then argue about them over breakfast, to feel safe with his name in the blond’s mouth and be trusted in kind. 

He isn’t ready to be done with this yet.

Filled with renewed determination, Grantaire finds his way back to the stage, now overrun with stagehands and techs. His eye catches on a familiar pile of locs and rust-colored vest.

“Feuilly!”

The man spins, clipboard still in-hand. “Hey! Great show tonight.” Grantaire’s skin is growing tacky with sweat, but Feuilly is kind enough to pull him into a one-armed hug anyway.

“Thanks.” Stepping back, he draws himself to full height. “Have you seen Enj?”

“Not since curtain call. If he’s not in the dressing room, he’s probably on his way home.”

Grantaire had anticipated this and sets his shoulders as he steels himself. “You two live together, right?”

“Yeah,” Feuilly nods. “You need something to be taken to him?”

“Can you give me your address?” 

The man’s brow furrows. “Is he expecting you?”

Deep breath. “Enjolras kissed me.”

The sound tech’s eyebrows raise fractionally. “Oh?”

“He kissed me and left without saying anything.”

The weight of Feuilly’s stare is heavy as the sound tech looks him up and down. If he requires additional explanation Grantaire is going to have to wing this conversation, which does not bode well for him given that his brain is rather like putty at the moment.

“Will you need the key?”

Grantaire blinks. “What?”

The clipboard switches to the man’s other side as Feuilly digs a hand deep into the pocket of his trousers. “It’s cold out, and he might not go straight home. Or,” he continues, withdrawing a slight ring containing three keys of varying sizes and metals, “he might not be keen on letting you in. Sounds to me like he should, though, and I have too much equipment to pack up to let you in before he goes to bed.”

Still trying to process Feuilly’s words, he gulps. “If I take them, how will you—”

“Leave ‘em on the counter,” the man shrugs, “and make sure the door’s unlocked if you leave before I get back.”

Grantaire stares at the keys dangling from Feuilly’s finger for several long seconds before taking them.

There are almost definitely faster ways to their apartment than the one Feuilly had described, but the metro is certainly the cheapest, so Grantaire huddles a little deeper into his parka and continues staring at the hideous pattern of the empty seat across from him. To his left hangs a hastily-applied flier advertising their show. Without looking Grantaire already knows it features a photo of him and Enjolras taken only a month ago frozen centimeters apart. At the time Grantaire had been certain Enjolras would see the softness in his expression, feel that the shakiness of his breath had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with their proximity, and find him out. And now?

_Why did you kiss me?_

There is no justification for how quiet the metro is.

It takes two more transfers to get to the stop Feuilly had indicated, and from there it’s another five-minute walk—a straight-shot north from where he gets off. The neighborhood isn’t as nice as he knows Enjolras can probably afford, but it has its own personality that resonates through carefully-tended window boxes and closed-up food stands.

Not that anyone has ever accused Feuilly of being given to exaggeration, but some universal truths are comforting to have confirmed from time to time: his and Enjolras’s building is a high-rise, and the precise vividness of periwinkle that the man had illustrated could not possibly be overstated. Grantaire punches in the code and starts up the stairs—apparently the only way to get up through the fifth floor. The pair live on the seventh level, and despite Grantaire’s legs starting to feel the ache of exertion from the steps and the hours of dancing that had preceded it, braving two more flights seems a decidedly safer idea than taking his chances with the singular rickety-looking elevator.

The concept of actually getting to his destination has been so theoretical for the past hour that, upon Grantaire’s arrival to the doorway of the flat, he has no idea how to proceed. His fingers run over the now-familiar jagged edges of the keys in his pocket as a reminder that he can enter if he so chooses. It feels presumptuous and wrong to simply allow himself in, though, even with Feuilly’s permission. He’s not here to see Feuilly, after all.

_Why did you kiss me?_

In the end he decides to knock. If he was more comfortable, he might tap out a familiar tune, perhaps even sing along. As is, his very presence on the bizarrely ordinary doormat feels like an intrusion, so he settles for three solid raps as the weight of his decisions cascades over him.

All told, it’s rather anticlimactic: no response. Feuilly had said that Enjolras might make a pit-stop on the way home, but Grantaire can’t be left alone to contemplate the consequences of his actions, and he won’t let himself into their apartment without being permitted to do so.

He knocks thrice more, louder this time. If Enjolras is in, he needs to make his presence known now, before Grantaire loses his nerve.

Realistically, he knows this is absurd. He dances for a living: anxiety shouldn’t come into the equation anymore. His entire life has been putting himself on display for others’ entertainment and dancing at the snap of someone’s fingers. Enjolras might not even be home, and then all of his frazzled fear will have been in vain. The possibility seems increasingly likely as the silence continues its interminable stretch, to the point where Grantaire almost misses when the response does finally come.

“Feuilly?” The voice is cautious, tinged with confusion but certainly belonging to Enjolras. “Are you locked out?”

“Hey, uh. No, sorry, it’s Grantaire? From the company?” Gods, he sounds like he’s in grade school again. 

His introduction is met with silence. 

“I know this is probably creepy, and I swear I’m not a stalker, but…”

But what? ‘But I want to know if you’d be interested in bickering at a more romantic venue’? ‘But I’m interested in finding out your opinions on non dance-related things too, like the planetary status of Pluto and Cage’s _4’33”_ and whether or not a color can be fake’? ‘But I’d like to ask if you have any exceptional feelings on handholding, particularly as it pertains to me’?

_Why did you kiss me?_

“...but I’d like answers.”

Silence echoes on the opposite side of the door, compounding as the seconds pass. Grantaire had learned about this in school, what was it—not half-life. Limits? Something with x and infinity—and he is not interested in experiencing ‘this’ in infinite quantities.

“If you want me to go…” he starts to offers, because he’s a coward.

“No.” The voice on the other side of the door is tired and soft, worn edges of a well-loved table; it’s nearly indistinguishable as Enjolras’s, usually so sharp and precise. 

“Okay then.” The teeth of the keys bite deliciously into his palm. “I can stay out here, if it’d make you more comfortable.”

“You don’t have to do that.” The answer comes automatically, but as Grantaire had suspected, the door stays shut.

“It’s fine,” he assures the man. All told, if he has to look Enjolras in the eye right now, he might lose his nerve. “I’m good out here.”

“It has to be cold.”

“I have a coat.”

A sigh. “You’re sure?” The words are exasperated, but there’s a fond tone that makes Grantaire suspect that the blond is probably smiling.

“I am.” He braces himself against the door, sliding down easily until he’s in a seated position, hands clutched between his knees. Behind him he hears a similar sound mirrored, and a stream of giddy nervousness courses through him.

Silence settles between them. Under other circumstances Grantaire might try to fill it with inane vies for attention, but in the quiet stillness of this subliminal space it feels like there is nothing but this moment in time and the question looming overhead.

_Why did you kiss me? _

“We can’t date.”

The words ring in Grantaire’s ears as he nods slowly, even knowing that Enjolras can’t see him. “I see.”

“It’s not you,” the other man explains with a tired sigh. “A lot is going on right now, and I…you deserve to be made a priority.”

Grantaire doesn’t know how to respond to this. Being prioritized has never been a factor in his past relationships, and to be honest following the first several times his heart had been trampled over he’d gotten out of the habit of caring. Turning the idea over in his head now, though, he finds that he likes it. He wants to prioritize Enjolras and in turn be Enjolras’s priority.

“What if I wasn’t a priority right away?”

The spark returns immediately, the very essence of what makes Enjolras who he is even when its trajectory is in an unfamiliar direction. “What? No, you should—”

“Because, like. I have things too.” Entirely relearning how to be in a functioning relationship comprised of more than booty-calls paired with promises of movies and mozzarella sticks, for one. “We can start small, if you want. Lunch, maybe?”

“Lunch.”

Again his body ignores that Enjolras can’t see him, shoulders giving an embarrassed shrug. “Yeah. I know you’re busy, but you still eat, so it’s not like you’d need to dedicate a bunch of time from your—” day, week, life “—schedule. And if we like that and want to do more, we can talk about it.”

A displeased grumble comes in response, and Grantaire is momentarily concerned that he’s offended the man. “I don’t want you for thirty minutes over a lunch break,” Enjolras protests. “I want to send you flowers and buy you brunch and go on spontaneous evenings out and have quiet nights in. I don’t want to have to schedule you into my life between performances and hope that our work aligns enough for us to see one another twice a month.

“And I can’t—I can’t leave the industry. The work I’m doing, especially with our campaign finally taking off…”

Grantaire should have known that Enjolras would be the type to take everything in his life seriously: passion seeps from the man’s pores, liquid fervor intoxicating everyone around him. It’s the reason he’s one of the top dancers in the country, if not the world. Still, hearing Enjolras express that he thinks Grantaire is worthy of that level of commitment? It’s dizzying to say the least, and even Enjolras’s outright admission that his work takes precedence still leaves Grantaire reeling.

“Of course.”

“This movement’s been my dream for so long.” The explanation is painted in shades of wistfulness and regret, and he isn’t sure if Enjolras is trying to convince Grantaire or himself.

“Why did you kiss me?”

The words escape Grantaire’s mouth unbidden, and he’s prepared to take them back until he realizes that this is exactly the question he needs to have answered.

The blond heaves a tired sigh. “Because it felt right. Because it was perfect. Everything about the moment—the music, the dance, _you.”_ A huff sounds. “And then the moment ended, and perfect moments have consequences.” 

The hallway is cold enough that Grantaire can see his breath misting in front of his face. He’d been warm from exercise when he first sat, but inactivity has chilled him, and his mittens are still tucked in his pockets. His hands rub together now in search of heat and friction, keys shifting awkwardly between his palms.

“And I suppose this is a consequence, then.” The words sound sharp and harsh to Grantaire’s ears, but he continues. “All or nothing, and everything in between’s an inconvenience.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Look, what you described sounds nice—” _Really_ nice. “—but I can’t do that right now either. And I mean, we’ve been around each other however many hours a week for the past however many months, but that’s work, it’s different. I don’t even know your favorite color.”

“I don’t have one,” a small voice admits.

“I like moments, Enjolras. I live for moments. I get that your life plan and culture movement and grand designs for starting your own crazy-diverse company of international super-dancers won’t be satisfied by that alone, but I would be.”

They’ve reached an impasse: Enjolras wants too much, and Grantaire is satisfied with too little. If nothing else, it’s nice to have his answer, to know they talked it out and decided things wouldn’t work. The air between them is clear, they’ll dance together tomorrow, and in another month they’ll be able to part ways with no hard feelings. Inside his shoes Grantaire’s toes flex, trying fruitlessly to evade the numbness settling in despite his boots. 

“Lunch.” The single word cuts through the quiet. “I…we could try lunch.”

Hope bubbles in Grantaire’s chest, and he tries to tamp it down. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Enjolras’s voice relaxes into a smile as if reluctantly allowing himself to be excited.

Excited at the prospect of lunch. 

With _Grantaire._

Gulping, he tries to bite back his own smile. “Awesome. Um. Have you been to that place, across—”

“I might mess up,” interrupts Enjolras. “This whole ‘moments’ thing. I, erm. Feuilly says I never learned the definition of ‘casual commitment.’”

Maybe he shouldn’t, but Grantaire chuckles. “It is a tad oxymoronic.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” the other man complains. “Anything worth doing is worth doing right.” There’s a pause. “But I’m willing to give it a try.”

“Baby steps.”

“Baby steps.”

The feeling is finally beginning to return to his hands, and really, Grantaire should be heading home soon, but he isn’t ready for the conversation to be over yet.

“Have you heard about the ninth planet?”

“…Pluto?”

Grantaire grins to himself. “So that’s a ‘no.’”

“I still don’t see the practical application of photographs of a black hole,” Enjolras insists.

“Is it not enough simply to have pictures of cool space things?” Grantaire’s laughter mixes with Enjolras’s from the other side of the door, and he couldn’t say if they’ve been talking for hours or minutes. His eye catches on a flash of movement toward the stairwell. “Hey Feuilly!”

The other man gives him a strange look. “Hi.” Peering curiously between the door and Grantaire as he continues his slow approach, Feuilly asks, “Have you been out here all night?”

“Um.” Grantaire feigns a cursory glance at a watch he doesn’t own. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Is Enj not here? I told you you could let yourself in.”

“I am,” the blond responds.

The sound tech’s eyes narrow, mouth open as if to say something that never comes. At long last he shakes his head, locs jostling as he does. “All right, well as long as you’re here, would you mind giving me my keys?”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” They’re still stowed safely in Grantaire’s palm, warm now from his fidgeting fingers. He stands, handing them to Feuilly and getting out of the way.

“…keys?” comes Enjolras’s voice hesitantly from opposite the barrier.

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure you’d be in, so I gave R mine. Not that he _used_ them,” Feuilly answers pointedly.

“So you. He could have come in at any point.”

Whatever Enjolras is getting at seems to be going over the other man’s head. “Yeah, and he didn’t, because he’s a fool determined to die early of easily-preventable causes.”

Ducking his head, Grantaire grins to himself. “Speaking of, I should probably get out of here. My place is on the other side of the city, and if I’m not careful I’m gonna miss the last train.”

He receives another dubious look from the sound tech. “You don’t wanna come in? It’s late, you’re more than welcome to stay the night.”

Biting at the inside of his lip, Grantaire turns over the proposition. It’d be nice, and he’d love more time to talk with Enjolras, even with Feuilly there. Tomorrow’s a rare day off, and if he texts Éponine…

On the other side of the door, Enjolras remains silent.

Tonight’s been nice by itself, he decides. Staying could ruin the carefully-constructed boundaries they’ve scarcely set, and Grantaire isn’t willing to risk it.

“That’s fine,” he tells them. “Thanks though.”

Feuilly shrugs. “I’m not taking off work to attend your funeral if your dumb ass freezes before you make it home.”

“Yeah you would.”

“Yeah I would,” Feuilly agrees, sliding a key into the lock, “but I won’t speak at it. And you’ll regret it, because I am a half-step-above-mediocre speaker.”

“I tremble at the thought,” Grantaire cajoles, already walking backward toward the stairwell. “Later, friends.”

The door to the stairwell is about to fall shut behind him when he hears Enjolras’s voice. 

“See you at lunch?”

A self-satisfied smile creeps across his face as he answers without turning.

“Yeah. See you then.”

**Author's Note:**

> The line about your name feeling safe in someone's mouth comes from [little Billy's definition of love](http://benwitherington.blogspot.com/2007/10/love-as-defined-by-children.html).
> 
> Pluto is a [dwarf planet](https://www.space.com/why-pluto-is-not-a-planet.html), grow the hell up. The ninth planet Grantaire refers to is [Planet Nine](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Planet_Nine), which scientists are considering calling "Persephone." The only science Enjolras follows with any real interest is green energy, though he generally keeps up with what Combeferre tells him (so he is _very_ well-versed regarding the black hole pictures). If he did decide to have a stake in planetary statuses, though, he would argue for Pluto to be redesignated a planet while Grantaire would tell him that the term loses all meaning when it's used to classify any chuck of ice that accidentally falls into the sun's orbit. 
> 
> [John Cage's _4'33"_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?reload=9&v=rDgHUj8sJaQ) is brilliant. Another great piece on the same sort of thread is [Duchamp's _Fountain_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fountain_\(Duchamp\)). I don't know if a dance equivalent exists yet, though if anyone did make it I believe it would probably be [Merce Cunningham](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Merce_Cunningham) (who also happened to be Cage's partner).
> 
> [Magenta isn't a real color](http://www.biotele.com/magenta.html).
> 
> I really really love comments and feedback. <3 If you enjoyed this (or if you didn't, I'm intrigued), please tell me below or drop me a message at my [tumblr](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com).


End file.
